Axe Murderers and Other Disasters

In our flat of 4 childless and mostly-single girls, we had our Safety Priorities down pat.

Being organised and motivated to survive, we knew that no survival plan was complete without, well, a plan.

It was important to be realistic and to discuss safety procedures as a team. Possibly even to run a few drills. Like the earthquake drills we had all throughout school; except this wasn't about earthquakes - we were not naive schoolgirls anymore. We knew all about the big bad world of psycho killers and axe murderers; looking out your bedroom window and seeing a Mangled Face; being followed around your home by a posessed living doll... that sort of thing.

We assembled a few hallway-meetings and fine-tuned our surivival techniques.

Firstly, a plan of all our most likely pre-attack positions:



Then, the actions each person should take, utilising either safe-spots or escape-spots:

Spot 1. I will call this the "Safety Pod".
Because that makes it sound a lot better than what it actually is - the escape which isn't really an escape at all. Instead it's a tiny triangle cupboard with just enough space for the smallest of small people to squash in, if they can arrange their limbs with the flexibility of... a squid?

We figured this would be one of the smartest ways to avoid death. What kind of axe murderer would be tempted to open a tiny triangular linen cupboard?

I will controversially select Tasha for this "Safety Pod" as she was the smallest flatmate available at the time.





We decided that whoever gets this spot waits for the axe murderer to pass, then runs down the stairs to freedom. Which brings me to the remaining 3 escape routes.
They were actually much more straightforward...

I literally did tie a length of guy-rope to my balcony railing on the 4th floor.

It was a pity that it only reached to 4 metres above the hard concrete driveway, but I planned to brave the extreme rope-burn. When an axe murderer is in your house, the adrenalin will stop you feeling pain, right?



At least I would still feel more relief than Emmi, who didn't have a balcony outside her bedroom, also on the 4th floor. Luckily she had all the stealth of a Katy-Perry-Lookalike wild cat, and with a little coaching from Tasha (who is also a ninja) she would probably land on all fours just fine.



Also, she had been known to carry a gun, which is always useful when you are running for your life from someone who only has an axe.

Take a page out of our book and get yourself a disaster survival plan. Beating your local pyscho killer or the next zombie virus may depend on it.

If I were a Builder

I wish I was a builder

Why ever would you wish that? You may ask...

It's quite a simple philosophy actually: If you can't beat em, join em.

What I'm sayin is, if I were a builder, I would look like this:




Or potentially sexier, if that is even possible.

Those curling biceps and rugged khaki-coloured stubbies give me a 3 out of 5 chance that people like this...



... may actually respect me, a teensy, teensy, tiny bit.

I can hear you laughing from your safe little office desks now. Builders? Who wants the respect of builders? I'm pretty sure they are only half human...

Yes, there was a time when I too thought that builders were a ferrel blend of hyena and gorilla, kept locked up behind wire fences or maybe some scaffolding. Poking their heads through the grates only when they want some meat. Growling as innocent female prey pass by...



What has changed my mind?


Well, essentially nothing. But aside from the fact that my previous viewpoint was 100% discriminatory and about 85% exagerrated, it just happens that I get to spend the rest of my year monitoring a real life building site.
This is a Tech assignment which is supposed to give me an appreciation for the complex construction of timber-framed residential dwellings.

But this is not Bob the Builder people. This is my life and I am a little afraid.

I don't want to be the girl who accidentally shoots herself with a nail gun and doesn't realise until years later whilst getting a dental xray...

It could happen.

Most of my class are builders, or used to be builders, or are dating builders. I am just the girl who worked in an office until I couldn't take it any more and went travelling. Then had about 9 months of being a bum (or technically, a part-time chef) before deciding to become a student again.

If I was a builder, I could have a remote chance of actually understanding what I am talking about in class when I give the following presentation to an audience of 70 about how to wire your house and generate your own power:



That would be a bonus!

And when someone in my class said "NZS3640" I would be like "have you noticed there is a new updated section on bracing in the 2011 edition?" and everyone would grunt, (which is Builder for "yeah totally I know!") and we would talk about it and have something in common.

Sigh.

I wish I was a builder.

Survivor [Norfolk] Island

My painfully short time on planet earth was being whittled away in a soul-rotting office job. It was ugly.

The airconditioning had me like a feverish raisin - hot, cold, damp, chewy and all dried up.

I sat around amidst piles of paper and frightening phone calls, getting varicose veins, RSI, and rotting away my muscles in a wheely chair.



The wheely chair was alright.

And then, completely out of the blue, it happened.
I went to check my emails, a routine office task....



... when out of the darkness came a beacon of light in the form of a magical email from my flatmate 'Emmi'



This happened:



Within 2 days the flights were paid for, my annual leave was sorted, and everything was looking peachy for my vacation.

But one morning later that week, a puzzling thought entered my head:



The answers were fast flowing: it's a bird sanctuary between Auckland and Waiheke Island... it's a gameshow.... it's a week-long party on a rich person's yacht!

All of these could have been valid answers.

But they weren't.

Turned out Norfolk Island was a giant retirement village plopped into the middle of the Tasman Sea between Australia and New Zealand. How were we to know?

I'm not going to go into huge detail about what we did there.

I'm just going to say that Old people are insane and they know how to party. Especially at a Fish-Fry. And they don't hold back on the port...



I felt embarrased by my apparent inability to stay up past 9pm, even with nana-naps in the afternoon...

Emmi discovered the joy that is: Prunes for breakfast.

And against all odds, they actually DID keep us awake at night with their Bridge Tournament.

And then, after a week in the slow mobility-scooter lane, we had a lovely flight back to Wellington in the party-cabin.

And that, my friends, is what you call a holiday.

Dear Earth

This is you:

And this is me:




These guys are my friends. We don't normally look this pathetic except when being compared to you:

You can probably tell by the size of our googly little bug eyes that we are more than a little intimidated by some of your recent antics - like how you seem to be in a mad rush to form yourself back into some state of Gondwanaland.

This involves a lot of pushing and groaning on your part which reminds me of labour pains, and I don't really enjoy being forced to think about giving birth every time you throw a tanty. But it could be worse - I could be actually giving birth. Or I could actually be a victim of one if your hissy fits, which isn't seeming that unlikely these days...

Some of my friends (the ones who look like ants compared to you, but maybe even smaller) have started sleeping with their shoes on incase you get angry night terrors again.

Now, I don't know if you've seen my shoes but I'm guessing you know something about bugs and germs since they live and breath all up in your face 24/7.

Let's take a closer look...

Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. They're loving it and getting a free ride all the way to a mattressy-bedbug-loogey heaven.

Totally aside from getting miscellaneous crap smeared across my bedsheets, you force me to consider the concept of public pajamal embarrassment. It's a whole new world of inappropriate when you may or may not end up sprinting onto the street in your PJs at 4am with all your neighbours for an indefinite period of time.

Also, you constantly remind me of how I don't have any reflexes.

It's not really a fair fight when you come knocking violently at 2am while I am still in zombie state and not registering that an earthquake is happening.

Other people are up running strategically into doorways, while I am still semi-dreaming about adopting African babies and saying "Why? Why?" in a wierd whispery voice.
The most I did 2 nights ago was slap the wall with floppy zombie hands because I couldn't remember where I was or find the light switch. And for some reason light was an important part of my attempt to beat an earthquake. I don't know why.


Anyway, what I'm saying is, while I have got off scott-free so far, some people haven't been so lucky, and we would really, really appreciate you going easy on us for a while. We are only humans. Pathetic little ant-sized humans.
Maybe go vent your frustration in the middle of the ocean or something.

Well, I'm about to go and have a shower and I would REALLY appreciate you not throwing me out onto my face, as that would be a second-worse-case-scenario for me right now.

(First-worst-case-scenario is a little embarrasing and may or may not involve dolls).

That's all for now.

Bye

p.s I do realise we have kind of screwed you up over the years. Bad.

Do you believe in Love after Valentines?

Ohh ho! Look what I did there! That title is snappy. It's almost like Cher is right here in the room with me.
Except not, because I changed the words and now I don't even know if you understand what I am alluding to...

This post is for you. Whether you are an "Ew gross Valentines is sloppy mush that I eat for breakfast!" person,
or an
"Ohh I wish I wasn't single so I could get a Valentines" person
or an
(-insert gruff male voice-) "Huh? Wha? That is for little girls and barbie dolls." person,
or even one of those rare people-who-actually-like-Valentines-all-the-time person.

Everyone has their reason. Mine were as follows (until something magical happened...)

1 - Singing Telegrams. Think pink bumble-bee outfits, an inappropriate song like 'sex bomb', and hearts drawn on your face with red lipstick.

2 - If you go to dinner with someone on Valentines, they might bring you flowers, and then you don't know where to put them during the meal, and they get all wilted and end up splattered with of spaghetti bolognese.

And that was all the reasoning I needed, until that marvelous day....


(You're thinking, oh, I can guess what comes next! Isn't this around about the same time that you fell in love?! No. Do read on.)

My flatmate... "Emmi" *(she doesn't have a stripper name, so I had to make this name up. I hope she approves)... received a secret Valentine.

The thing was, she had no idea about this, because when the Valentine was delivered, she was attending a party. Our other flatmate was at home instead. It went like this:

The flowers and chocolates got placed outside Emmi's bedroom door, the Admirer went sadly home, and the rest of the night was spent in an excited, "oh I can't wait for Emmi to come home and see her secret surprise gift! She got chocolates! And maybe she really likes that guy and maybe they are going to go out and then maybe they will get married and we will be her bridesmaids...?!"

When Emmi finally came home - still glowing from her I-Hate-Valentines-Party - she bounced merrily up the stairs to go to bed.


That was when the screaming started.

I was lucky enough to arrive home at this point, and was standing at the bottom of the stairs, bewildered and frightened.

Emmi had found the Valentine outside her bedroom door. She was deeply enraged and disgusted. Who even WAS he???!!

The Roses were limp and the card was stalker-ish with creepiness written inbetween all the lines! (there were 2 of them).

The house was in a commotion for about half an hour before the chocolates were abandoned on top of the TV because they were "guilty guilty love chocolates! I can't eat THEM!"

And the Roses sat on the table, looking up at us with sad little faces that said "We are unloved" or maybe, "we are inserted with spy-cams"?

It was all very mysterious and it turned out the Admirer was someone who's admiration was blatantly unwanted. Also he had never even talked to her face before!

She was tortured by his attention and the frightening possibility that he might expect something back, or try to pursue the 'relationship' further. (He did, later.)


What's the moral of this story, you may ask?

Am I going to paint you a picture of why I like Valentines, and why many people detest it, and what is and isn't appropriate, and how cruel women can be, and why men are incapable of romance, and what is the true meaning of Valentines, and what kind of gift you should get (not Cadbury Roses)...?


No. I'm just going to say that myself and the other flatmates really enjoyed our Valentines day that year - watching our tortured Emmi, solving the stalker mystery, and eating the Guilty Guilty Love Chocolates. All of them.

The European City that shall remain nameless incase I offend someone

I thought that this city was my friend. Not like an actual friend, but like a friend I hadn't met yet that was a city instead of a human.

But I was wrong.

(Disclaimer: This post is more about mocking our own high expectations of the city than trying to actually offend people who live there.. and I do know some of them!

My friend Natasha and I were hanging out in Europe, as you do, and decided to visit this city. (I'll let you guess - it starts with P and ryhmes with "Rague".).)

(P.S Her name is not actually called Natasha but she said that would be her stripper-name . More accurately, her concubine-name, which is possibly even worse than the fact that she has a stripper name, so in the interest's of internet-privacy... Natasha.)

We expected this city to look like it's picture - rich and fancy and old.

Like George Clooney.

... then we arrived at night on a train and it's like Hugh Heifner was waiting for us at the train station instead. But he was fat and his gold chain was poking through his chest hair and he didn't have his bath-robe on. On second thought he didn't look much like Hugh Heifner at all.

According to the map there was a tram line directly from the main train station but the little pictures with arrows on the walls could have meant any kind of vehicle so we ended up walking in circles over a bumpy park, in the dark, and there were dodgey looking shadows of men that could have been taxi drivers, but could have been something else too.

We were too chicken to find out, so we just kept walking, trying to use night-vision to see through the trees and make sure no-one was lurking.

That was when we saw the lights from a tram in the distance and sprinted (if you can call it that, dragging two suitcases over lumpy cobble stones) for it. It stopped and we tried to get on.

We didn't know that the tram driver would close the door on our luggage. We also didn't know that all the passengers on the tram would stare at us cold-blooded like an alien species. At least they stopped staring when we needed help with our luggage or when they wanted to elbow us out of their way...

Oh yeah and we were so hardened by life on the European streets that we didn't buy tickets.

By this stage we were kinda aware that we were completely lost, at night, in a foreign city. It wasn't the first time so we were a bit like, o big whup.

It wasn't a big deal until we found ourselves standing in a dirty street in the dark with no-one around except for these dudes. We could only guess what they were talking about...

Which would have been fine except the drawing doesn't do it justice. Did I mention it was night-time and no-one was around?

And that they reminded me of the scary dog-man-on-a-chain in Pulp Fiction?

And that probably hated jews and I'm about 90% sure they also hated us?

And that they kept watching us like they were discussing if we would taste better fried or bbq-ed?

In our zombie-exhaustion-state it was all a bit too much.

Luckily after an hour of searching we managed to find our way into the heart of the red-light district! Yay!

This could have been less great if it wasn't for the fact that our apartment was there. Wedged inbetween some sex-shops and some bogan-goths, we were very happy to find it, never mind that it was probably a brothel in the off-season.

The next day we went on a bus tour with a guy talking in a language that was supposed to be English but sounded exactly like this:

The informative-ness was amazing! We also got split up and Natasha sat at the back, looking sadly out the window except when I turned around to pull scared faces at her.

Not because I was trying to be funny, because I was actually scared. Scared that we had both gone insane and no longer understood what used to be our mother-tongue - English.

That night to celebrate our incredible foreign-city-ness we went out for a drink in the tourist-zone hoping to spot some hot bods and re-live our time in the cranking night-life of Berlin. But it didn't resemble Berlin very much at all.

And that was the end of our time in that country.

(Well, almost, we had to go on a train with urine-puddles on the floor, and THEN we were done.)

:)

Mullets and Shmullets.

Sometimes it's the things closest to our hearts that are hardest to talk openly about. Your friends probably know your general dressing style, the kind of movies you like, the music you're into.

But they might not know your view on religion, abortion, or a cause you are secretly passionate about.

What I'm saying is, it's time we talked about mullets.

Does that make sense? No? Never mind. It doesn't matter. The important thing is that I'm finally coming out with my deepest darkest passions and baring my heart for all to see.

Mullets. Or shmullets (she-mullets). Commonly known as 'Business on the top and Party at the back'.

Right now you are probably like "ew gross, mullets are disgusting, i can't believe they are legal, or are they?"

Mullets are legal. But they probably shouldn't be, on account of they could cause accidents. I don't mean like, 'hey my hair got caught in a combine harvester' kind of accident. I mean like, 'o I'm driving and I may veer off the road because that mullet was so awesome I wet my pants" kind of accident.

Do you follow me? That kind of cool shouldn't even be allowed. What's not to love about your average household mullet? I bet you are trying to think of something bad to say about them right now.

It's ok tho, you will never come up with anything. And if you were going to say "but - but - but - people with mullets look like - dirty - rapists" then come up with another argument because you're talking about moustaches, not mullets.

Well - you may ask me - if mullets are so freakin amazing, why don't you get one?

There are 2 answers to this question.

1) If I had a mullet myself, I wouldn't be able to fully appreciate it's shiny glorious beauty because the bulk of hair growing from my head would be trailing scratchily down my neck. I don't have eyes in the back of my head you know. Unfortunately.

2) People like all you mullet-haters out there have so discriminated against mullet-wearing folk that I would probably be destined for unemployment and every kind of prejudice that exists. I know this because today I mentioned to a friend that a shmullet may be in order the next time I go to the hairdresser, and she replied "Then we can't be friends".

Luckily, I am a good friend, so I relinquished my mullet-sporting rights to save our friendship.

(Which does beg the question, would anyone out there get a mullet, for me, if I said I wouldn't be friends with them unless they got one?)

Today I was in Featherston. It's not really a town as much as a road with a dairy on it. Everyone in Featherston wears polarfleece, trackies, bare feet, and mullets. Yep, it's pretty much a rule that you can't live in Featherston without a mullet. I've considered moving to Featherston for that reason, but why would I, when countries like Sweden are filled with attractive blonde sport-mullets?

Sweden, Featherston, Sweden, Featherston...... I think I'll move to Sweden. And live with these guys.